


Though it burns and blisters, I turn my face to the sun and laugh

by Spragg



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Blowjobs, Feels, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Pre-Mad Max: Fury Road, War Boy Culture, lets go down with this ship together, sux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-18 05:07:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5899369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spragg/pseuds/Spragg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And the days go on and on; the slippery slope changing its angle. Too slowly to actually notice until the morning he wakes up wondering if it was always like this. It is a gentle thing, time. Wispy, nudging, tugging and under the starlit night he dreams of him somehow being both the cool shadow and the scorching sun. There is a traitor here and it resides inside, somewhere beneath the sickness and the painted skin lies a beating heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The beginning, similar to the end but weaker somehow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prologue.

War drums multiplying through the citadel. 

This was their first real raid, blood racing through strong veins. Slit was not going to let him fuck up, not his driver, and the lancer knew exactly how to organize his actions. Determined, he collected the thunder sticks, ignoring his driver's childish excitement. They were going to do war, they were going to chase the thieving buzzards and he would get himself into Valhalla or die trying.  
“Please pup, for fuck's sake don't fuck this up for us.”  
“Oh please, as long as you don't repeat your little incident with the tripping and the falling and the almost being the war boy with the most mediocre death ever.”

Days turn into more days which turn into even more days, thousands of sunsets spent falling asleep together, thousands of sunrises of both being the first face the other saw. Sleeping close together on the rock floors of the citadel was commonplace. Pups piling together for comfort, war boys sleeping back to back for warmth and from lack of space. Waking up at dawn with bellies rumbling, going to the cantina hoping to be fed. Almost every second of every day spent together, which is both encouraged and expected. Immortan Joe's army is a mass of painted faces, its smallest unit being not the individual but the pair. Alone you are weak and fragile, together we are an immortal machine burning day and night. 

It is no secret that Nux is an incredible driver, objectively one of the best and his driving emphasizes Slit's formidable lancing. When out on raids, they are more than a team, their actions aligning, predicting each other's decisions before they are spoken. They become one with the vehicle, a shiny, perfect war engine of devouring flames.  
“Faster, Nux! Shred the coward!”  
The driver changes gear and the engine roars like a beast and Slit's heart pounds violently against his ribcage.  
They hit the fleeing buzzard with incredible force; blood splattering on the wind shield and unto the lancer's laughing face. He licks his lips tasting death and satisfaction. 

By nightfall they are back in the Citadel, cheering, saluting, high on blood lust and victory, moving into the bowels of the rock to revel in their own superiority. Jugs of rotgut are passed around, fights take place in the pit, war boys yelling, pups curiously sneak in to see what the commotion is all about. As the darkness thickens the tumult starts dying out. Drunk on rotgut and triumph Nux and Slit shuffle back to the the adjacent rooms of varying sizes where all war boys sleep . Kicking off their shoes laughing, still excited from the chase, Nux strokes his lancer's stapled chin with his pale hand.  
“You're so fucking chrome Slit.” he says, drunk blue eyes staring into darker ones.  
They lay down on the stone floor, back to back as always. Nux falls asleep instantly, his breath slowing down and evening out. Slit lies awake in the relative silence of hundreds of war boys snoring and shifting. There is an unusual stirring in his chest, not at all like blood lust or the elevation of a chase. Turning around to face Nux' back, he lifts an arm to stroke his driver's shoulder, but pulls back quickly; confused about the sudden rush of blood to his ears. He turns around again and drifts slowly into sleep, heart pounding forcefully yet light somehow.


	2. Let the blood paint the sand crimson; I am the coming of the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternative title: “How many synonyms for 'tumour' can I possibly come up with?”  
> The answer is “too many”.
> 
> Chapter summary: Slit doesn't know what his feelings are doing.
> 
> This chapter contains violence.

“Sometimes I think about when I had to chew your food and then feed you with it because your cheeks were healing. What do you think that means?”  
“Fuck you. You think you're tough shit.”  
“No, I mean...I like to think about it.”  
“Whatever. You're still mediocre, pup.”

And the days go on and on; the the slippery slope subtly changing its angle. Too slowly to actually notice until the one morning you wake up wondering if it was always like this. It is a gentle thing, time. Wispy, nudging, tugging quietly and one starlit night you dream about him somehow being both the cool shadow and the scorching sun. There is a traitor here and it resides inside: somewhere behind the sickness and the painted skin lies a beating heart. 

Bath day comes and exhilarated voices reverberate through the corridors; steps trailing up the stairs to higher ground closer to the sky. Slit likes the azure of the desert heavens. The infinite vastness gives him vertigo. When Nux looks at him with his massive blue eyes the unbearable and shamefully delicious light-headedness is the same and Slit doesn't know which reaction came first any more.  
After bath time follows the process of repainting the clay. Drivers and lancers paint each other in a ritualistic fashion. They were taught how to do this as pups and their movements are skilled and deliberate. Yet lately Slit's touch had become gentler, softer somehow. It is not supposed to be like this, not supposed to be like this at all. There is a part of him that wants to drag it out; wants to feel Nux' skin beneath his fingers for as long as possible. It is distracting and weak and undignified, but it is true and that is what stings the most. Slit is not soft, has never fucking been soft, and he takes pride in how many of the fresher pups he can get running when he snarls at them. He cups his hands into the clay and starts rubbing it unto his driver's shoulders when he feels the lumps just beneath the skin. Suddenly he becomes aware of the subtle wheeze in Nux' breath; the slight irregularity of his inhalations.  
“What's wrong?” Nux asks, turning his head backwards.  
“Nothing,” Slit answers, quickly continuing his work.  
It is not as if Slit himself lacks a failing body. The growth on his ear has significantly lessened his hearing and sometimes his bad eye itches and bleeds. Nevertheless, his blood still screams like burning guzzoline fuelling his rage; in his most chrome moments so like a gleaming god. He has no hesitation about the feast awaiting him in Valhalla, but Nux though...Nux is more unsure, quicker to doubt and Slit is reminded of just how unbearably half-life his driver is. So far away from a towering, shining titan with his decaying, raspy pipes and the eerie rattle of his bones.

On the following day they're sent out on a raid for supplies and bloodbags. They come upon a raider vehicle and bask in the glory of the hunt. Nux makes a sharp left turn, but Slit has already anticipated the motion and moves with the car. He grabs a thunderstick and hurls it toward the fleeing raiders, aiming straight and true. It explodes into the enemy ammunition cart and sends both vehicle and drivers flying. They hit the sand and Nux hits the brakes just in front of the ruined wreck. The two war boys step down from their car to review the situation. Three raiders; two still alive writhing in the sand and one very, very dead, the upper half of his body face down on the ground and the other half ten meters away. Nux scans the surroundings for anything they can bring back with them.  
“Nuts, come take a look at this mediocre fuck,” Slit calls as he's holding the raider up by the neck. The driver closes in to have a look and is met by a raider face so full of bulbous growths that it's a damn miracle he's still breathing.  
“That is the most wretched fucking thing I've ever seen.” Nux laughs.  
And there it is again: the writhing vermin in his chest and Slit both hates and embraces it. Above all it excites and burns him.  
“We're not gonna take this rusty smeg back with us. Might as well have some fun,” he says smiling. Nux smiles back in anticipation.  
Slit squats in front of the poor sod's face, grabs a handful of hair and pulls back. One red and one green eye staring eagerly into the raider's malformed features.  
“Hey lil' buddy,” Slit says with his most gentle voice. “You don't look so good. Let's see if organic mechanic Slit can make it better.” He shoots out the switch blade on his wrist and slashes a tumour off. The wound oozes blood and pus and the raider groans in agony. The desert air around them vibrates with primal hunger and the lancer shivers with delightful malevolence. He feels the goosebumps on his skin and chuckles.  
“Oh no Nuts, look at this. Seems like I only made it worse!” He cuts into his victim's skin again and the knife gets stuck halfway through the largest boil. Slit pouts.  
“Oops, shoulda sharpened this thing. Oh well.” He yanks his hand and sends the lump flying, followed by sputtering blood and a thick, rancid goo. The raider lets out a blood curdling wail.  
“By Immortan, you are fucking _merciless_ Slit.” Nux smiles and licks his teeth.  
And it is moments like these he lives for; breath choppy, muscles tense, the sight of his driver gloating in the bloodshed and it is all delicious and it is all maddeningly beautiful.  
Slit starts to chant and Nux quickly joins in:  
“War boys! War boys! Fukushima kamakrazee war boys!”  
Weak from shock, blood loss and the damages from the crash, the raider only manages to utter a single word with a tiny voice:  
“....please...”  
Still glaring into the damaged face, Slit leans even closer.  
“Hey now, you're not gonna get into Valhalla with that attitude. Oh, right, you're not gonna get there anyway.”  
He turns around to look at the other war boy. “Nuts?”  
Nux slides a knife from his booth, buries it to the hilt in the whimpering raider's throat and gives it a hard jerk. The cut is deep and a red flood violently starts gushing out. Slit barely has time to put up his hand for protection. He lets go of the now dead enemy's hair and the corpse falls down, blood still pumping out in an even rhythm.  
“Enough fun for today. Go check on the other one and I'll go gather the supplies.”

On the way back to the citadel they're ambushed by two buzzard vehicles. Slit takes one out easily with a perfectly aimed thunderstick. Just as he's about to engulf the other car in flames, his mind flashes back to Nux smiling at him just before they went out. _So fucking shine_. It only lasts a second, but it's enough to make him lose his concentration and when Nux takes a sharp turn he tumbles; forcing him to throw himself and the stick he's holding out of the moving car. In the last moment before total annihilation of both war boys and vehicle he manages to throw the thunderstick into the last buzzard car, wrecking it completely. He gets up and watches Nux drive towards him. Nux stomps on the break pedal, rushes out of the driver's seat and throws Slit back unto the sand.  
“What the fuck was that? Do I have to strap you down like a fucking pup?”  
Rage burning in his driver's eyes, matched only by the fury pumping through Slit's own body.  
“If you weren't such a mediocre driver, I...”  
Nux lunges forward, places his weight on Slit's lower belly and pins his hands down with his knees.  
“What did you say to me, you useless, leaking battery? Fucking wasteboy rust!”  
Slit's blood turns into a boil. He musters all the strength in his body to get up, but he's pitifully stuck with his back against the sand.  
“Don't you dare defy me, lancer! You know your place and it's right here under me.”  
They stare at each other for a couple of long seconds. Nux speaks again, this time calmer.  
“You make sure that doesn't happen again. We're going to die historic on the fury road, not become buzzard fodder in a burnt-out wreck.”  
He lifts his knees slightly to let Slit move his aching hands. His heart is still pounding from the fight when a straining and uncomfortably familiar feeling radiates from Slit's loins as Nux shifts his weight to fall into a more relaxed sitting position.  
“Get off Nuts, feels weird when you sit like that.”  
Nux doesn't move. Instead he rocks his hips making Slit gasp in surprise and his pants tighten.  
“How about this? Still weird?” The driver stares into his lancer's eyes. Slit's ears turn a fiery red and he has never been more thankful for the covering clay.  
“Yeah, very. Just get off me.”  
Nux is still for a moment and then gets up. He lends a hand to Slit and the driver pulls a little too hard causing them to stand with their faces centimetres apart. Slit is thrown off balance in a very uncharacteristic fashion; his body on fire, his pants bulging and his mouth yearning to explore. It wouldn't even be considered odd to release this.tension, but there is something inside of him that knows that this is more than a simple desire to climax. The typical rutting in the night is anonymous; a war boy grabbing another after a raid; high on oil and grime and victory and death. Growling, biting, hissing; it is anger and pent-up frustration and impersonal but it is not this. This is another kind of fire; both fiercer and softer somehow. This is wanting and weakness; longing not for release but for the touch of another. He fills his lungs with a deep, unsteady breath. He breathes out. The seconds drag on and on. With tremendous discipline he forces himself to speak:  
“Let's go.”  
Nux' gaze doesn't falter. Instead he leans forward making their foreheads touch. It feels as if Slit is going to plummet into those blue eyes; as if he's going to disappear into the boundless eternity of the sky. _Maybe that wouldn't be so bad_. He quickly pushes the thought away, but it's too late. It's been too late for a long time. Suddenly Nux breaks the spell:  
“Yeah, fine. Get up on the car and hold on this time.”

There are no more interruptions on the way back, just the dusty breeze in Slit's face and the faded colours of the desert sunset. The traitor under his ribs flutters and he feels almost weightless but maybe that's all right here in the borderlands between day and night. The chilly evening air, the distant thunder and the silence before the storm; they are all here in this moment and for now that is just enough.


	3. The dying days; they are alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three alternative title: just shove ur dick down my throat already i cant handle the tension
> 
> Summary: I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT MY FEELINGS ARE DOING AND THAT MAKES ME ANGRY //SLIT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jfc Slit is so embarrassing to be honest. I mean come on dude, just kiss him. Like whatever, you're both gonna be dead soon anyway what the hell does it matter. Yeah, I'm sure you're the only young person in the history of mankind that has ever been confused about their feelings. Get over it.
> 
> This chapter is super short because I had to break it up into two.

The thundering notes coming from Doof's guitar vibrate through his body and the rush of the victorious battle sings through his soul. He has witnessed a historic death today. The smell of guzzoline and burning wreckages still linger in his nose as he's strolling up the stairs to the top of one of the Citadel's three pillars. There is a large fenced area where the warboys host all their celebrations. Immortan Joe probably put it there so that the loud and aggressive voices from the parties might travel across the dunes. The all-powerful leader had never been one for subtlety.  
A couple of warboys are seated around a flat rock playing cards with a worn deck. Slit sits down next to Morsov and helps himself to the rotgut. One of the younger warboys, Switcher, leans forward to talk to him.  
“Ah, Slit! Hey man, I wanted to ask you something. How about you cut me up real shine? I saw the awesome stuff you did on Sprockets.”  
“Sure, why not. What are you going to give me?”  
“I'll suck your cock real good.”  
Slit snorts.  
“That'll get you a small cog on your shoulder Switcher. You're going to have to suck it many, many times if you want anything close to what I did on Sprockets. He gave me a pair of boots.”  
“Slit, come on. I ain't got nothing like that. But I promise I'll look you straight in the eye with these big blue peepers the whole time and I'll even paint stripes on my lips, if you know what I'm sayin'.”  
Slit's grin quickly fades and his eyes widen. The other warboys around the table look at each other with both worry and excitement. Banter and bickering among boys of equal rank is one thing. A fresh hood rat giving this kind of lip to an experienced lancer could definitely end with Slit hurling Switcher from the edge of the Citadel. Switcher tries to gloss over the situation.  
“I was just kiddin', I didn't mean nothin'. Still, gotta admit that I think we've all seen the looks you give your driver. Ain't nothin' weird about that though man. His plump clam is just beggin' for it, if you get my drift.”  
Slit snarls and lunges over the table. Switcher throws himself up to defend against the lancer, but Slit is quicker. He grabs Switcher's shoulders and slams him into the ground.  
“Little roadkill filth! You think you're so chrome you mediocre piece of rust!”  
Slit throws punch after punch into Switcher's chest. However, after only a few moments, Morsov steps in to grab Slit and tear him away from the kid.  
“Calm down and let it go. Switcher's barely more than a pup. You know how they are.”  
“Morsov, can you stop being so fucking mediocre? Let me go!”  
Switcher sees his chance and scutters away. Slit, burning with rage and frustration, bellows at him as he disappears:  
“Yeah, you better fucking fang it, you flat rusty tire! Next time I see you I'm gonna cut you up and tie your guts to the lancer perch!”

When Switcher is well out of sight Morsov lets go. Slit turns around to punch him, but Morsov catches his fist and throws him to the ground. Slit growls at him but doesn't fight back. He feels strangely meek and guilty and his cheeks are filling up with blood. None of the remaining warboys say anything; instead they keep on playing as if nothing happened. But he feels their eyes on him. And the worst part is that he doesn't know what stings the most; the frustration or the truth behind Switcher's words that stirred him up enough to want to kill the youngling. He decides to do the only reasonable thing: get properly drunk. After having filled his jar up with rotgut he picks a direction at random and starts walking and stops to sit down when he reaches the fence. With the jar held high he toasts the night sky. But there is something else with him in this moment, as in all moments of his half-life nowadays; the thought of the lanky, stupid, intolerable, fucking best driver in the Citadel. Slit is a hardened sand monument to glory, but Nux is aqua cola. Smooth, soothing; both merciless and mild. But above all is this: even in all its gentleness it is slowly but surely corroding its way through Slit's solid armour. It makes the fine grains fall from his body and the droplets find a path straight through his chest. Inside lies his mechanical heart; steadily beating to a fixed rhythm. The horrible and intoxicating truth is that it is not so mechanical any more. It has found a different song; somehow both more unsteady and more sure. The metal casing has become dented and rusty and the machine heart has grown organic; fleshier and filled not with guzzoline but with warm, red blood. It is not beating any more; it is thumping, thumping on a frequency lost in time and in the vastness of it all. At least that is what Slit thinks, albeit with less colourful words and more centred around the stories about how it used to be before the endless sands engulfed the world. When everyone was soft and aqua cola was plentiful and most people didn't live in the desert. Maybe this awful lightness and this cruel yearning was how they felt all the time. Slit shudders. Might be that those people of old were stronger than he thought. He can handle broken bones and bruises. This fucking ache is confusing, unreal and impossible to pinpoint.  
“No. It hurts here” he announces to the distant stars while pointing to his heart. “Maybe also a little bit here” he adds, pointing to his groin. “But mostly here” he says, grabbing his chest. Oh well. Time to kiss this wretched affection goodbye.

A couple of hours later he kicks the empty jar and it rolls over the sand. He is probably more drunk than he has even been. A lot more. A tall, glowing apparition closes in on him from the distance. It is lean and wiry and to Slit it looks like a blazing beacon. There is a certain raunchiness in the way it sways as it walks; its pants hanging low on its hips like a fucking invitation. When it is close enough for Slit to make out the details he relishes in the sight of the skilled carving on its chest. As his gaze travel upwards it catches the twin scars on its cheekbones before stopping just above them. Its eyes are inverted moons; the pitch black pupil circled by a pale light. And in that moment, Nux is a gleaming god; so splendid it hurts to look at him and Slit's shaking hands itch to touch that painted skin.

“Hey, hey Slit. I've been looking for you.”  
Nux sits down beside him, so close that the lancer feels the heat radiating from his skin. The sand is cold under them and a light breeze makes the hair on their arms stand up. Slit's body is drawn towards his driver's and he puts his head on Nux' shoulder. After a couple of feeble tries, he manages to drag his arm up and wrap it around Nux' waist. His voice is hoarse as he speaks, his lips moving against Nux' neck:  
“You're so fuck...fucking chrome Niks.”  
“You're not so bad yourself mate.”  
“Nusk, wanna...really wanna fuck your shine mouth.” He tries to caress Nux' lips, but miscalculates the movement completely and slaps his hand onto his driver's face instead. Nux smiles through his fingers.  
“Yeah yeah buddy, I know. Too bad you're not gonna remember that in the morning. Let's get you inside.”  
“No! I wanna...jus'...wanna kiss.”  
He can't keep his eyes open any more and his legs won't support him. Nux grabs his feet and drags him to a crevice.  
“You know Slit, with all the effort you put into acting reckless and badass it's kind of hilarious that you don't have the guts to tell me this when you're not drunk out of your fucking mind.”  
“Wha...”  
“Nevermind. Go to sleep.”  
As he is falling into the inviting darkness of unconsciousness he smiles. The futility and meaninglessness of it all is a comforting blanket. And in his dreams they are alive. The ones that walked these halls long ago, his driver's laughter that contains more meaning than he could imagine and the dying days ahead; they are alive.


	4. Fiery is the sickness and cruel, that rips your chest apart to let in the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter four alternative title: grab my dick loser we're going to valhalla

“Rise and shine Slit.”  
The blistering sunlight hits his face and Slit dies the rustiest death ever: death by rotgut fever. His eyes burning, his stomach in knots and every joint feeling like they're going to snap at any second. Growling, he turns around to face the rock.  
“Go away.”  
“I brought you some aqua cola.”  
When the realisation of what Nux said forms in his foggy mind, his mouth suddenly feels like sand. With great effort he manages to open his good eye and turn his body again to face his driver. Nux is standing with his back to the sun and his shadow falls on Slit's face. The burning rays frame his slender figure and if the lancer wasn't so sick with rotgut fever he would probably savour this chrome view.  
_Maybe not savour, but y'know...enjoy_.  
Instead he drags himself out from under the ledge and vomits.  
“Luckily for you, we're not getting attacked at this very moment. Though I doubt it would have made any difference.” Nux says, laughing.  
“Fuck you. Gimme the aqua cola.”  
He grabs the offered bottle and gulps its contents down and never has he tasted anything so delicious. Nux moves just enough for the sun rays to pierce Slit's eye again and make his head feel like it's going to split into two. He groans.  
“Stupid schlanger-eater.”  
“Bet you'd love that.”  
“What? Stop talking! Just go!”  
Slit is too tired and too sick and the world seems to be spinning around him. On top of that is a hollow, tingling feeling in his stomach. Like he should have realized something but didn't. Like there had been an additional layer of joke or insult in what Nux had said that he had missed. _Whatever_. He stays put for a whole day and a whole night going in and out of consciousness. At one time he wakes up to find a jar of aqua cola and a grilled lizard put out in front of him. Stupid, soppy, wonderful Nux. At midday on the second day he is done feeling sorry for himself. Still a bit unsteady on his feet he climbs the stairs up towards the small garage where they keep their car. Nux is there showing a repairboy how to diagnose a spark knock resulting from overheating.  
“Listen, pup, if you hear this sound when you rev the engine hard it means that the fuel is not burning properly. In this case the engine is overheated because of a broken water pump.”  
He shows the little one how to remove the busted pump and repair it. When Slit moves towards the thunderstick supplies Nux gives him a nod. 

Nux continues teaching the pup how to repair the engine while Slit is putting sticks together. When the sun sets Nux sends the child away making him and his lancer the only ones in the bay. Slit wishes the pup a good night and finishes his work. He puts the last thunderstick down and when he turns around he sees Nux standing behind him, much closer than he had anticipated. And there is that tightening grip in his chest again; the serrated vice grinding unending.  
“Hey Nuts. Didn't hear you coming this way.”  
“Slit, I'm tired of this rust game. It's trash.”  
Slit grunts and shrugs.  
“Gotta finish making the sticks.”  
“I just saw you put the last one in the rack.”  
Silence. _The silence of a fucking coward_. Nux shatters the stillness:  
“Listen up lancer, this is not a suggestion. This is me giving you an order. Game's up.” Nux closes the distance between them and Slit feels a shiver travel down his spine. And it's so much easier to let go, to fall, to throw your hands up into the sky and let the sandstorm grind you down to the bone leaving only white, hollow pieces scattered in a coarse dust. Here in our innermost chambers, in which all are equal, lives the weary wanderer. He is the song of desire that instills the desperation in all of us; his dissonance a finely tuned weapon against the safe but mundane lethargy of contentedness.  
Slit rarely grows weary of his existence. He is a spark in the all-devouring fire, he is the roar of the engine, he is the metal, the carnage, the chanting and all the voracious fanaticism running through the winding bloodstream of the Citadel.  
But here, in front of his driver's blue eyes, he feels drained. A long finger carefully traces the brand on his neck and the wanderer howls a jarring melody of hunger. Everything is somehow both too much and not enough.  
“Fuck you bug-eye.”  
“Just shut up, staple-face, and let me kiss you.”

With Nux' invitation radiating through him he does something that he has never done before: he resigns. The driver wraps his bony fingers around Slit's neck and pulls him closer. There is a throb of doubt in his throat just before their lips meet, but then he feels his driver's scarred mouth on his; lips wet and eager, and everything inside is suddenly blown to smithereens. And there is no traitor worming in his chest any more because it is him; he has become the impostor and they are one. He opens his mouth to let Nux in and he is greeted by a warm tongue tasting of guzzoline, clay and _Nux_. His breath quickens as he runs his hands down his driver's sides, stopping at the waist to pull him closer.  
Nux lets go of the kiss and leans back. Slit badly wants to break the eye-contact, but he's never been a coward and he sure as fuck isn't gonna start now. _But those eyes...deeper than the skies over Valhalla_.  
Nux snakes his arm around Slit's hips and grinds their pelvises together. His movements are slow and deliberate. Slit lets out an undignified gasp and he can see the smile reaching his driver's eyes.  
_But what can I do? He. Just. This is. I feel it against mine_.  
Arteries pulsating, heartbeats like war drums, desperation, fury, and there is nothing left _holy Immortan just let me have this one thing_. There is no more gently tilting slippery slope, this is tumbling over the edge and falling into the chasm; gasping, wanting, not fighting any more and with a voice husky from shameful desire he lets out the forbidden words:  
“I've been wanting this for a long time.”  
“I know. So have I.”  
He locks his arm around the taller warboy's neck and pulls him back into the kiss. The groans that rise from deep within his driver are intoxicating. _Nux likes this_. The thought sends a jolt through his body making his skin blush. Hands grabbing arms, shoulders, dragging along wiry chests; wanting to feel everything all at once. Nux pushes him backwards towards the wall and Slit's back slams into the stone. The feeling of the swelling in Nux' pants against his own forces him to release his driver's lips and moan:  
“Fuck...”  
How can there be no memories in his hands from all the times he has painted his driver, how can the warmth of Nux' skin in his palms feel so new and foreign? These actions themselves are nothing new, he has clawed and clutched and lusted for flesh many times before. But never with Nux and this time is not like any of the other times. It's still as desperate and frantic, but gentler somehow. This is not a selfish pursuit of release with a nameless other, this is taking pleasure in listening to the sounds that his driver makes because of him. This is a desire to touch and kiss and lick every part of Nux' body, not for his own satisfaction, but for the satisfaction of Nux.  
“ _Too soft_.” he whispers unintentionally, lost in the unfamiliar feeling of wanting to please. He feels Nux' hand graze downwards and small clinking sounds bounce on the wall behind him just before his heavy pants brush past his hips and fall down to his feet, rendering him naked from his ankles up. Slender fingers close around his hard length and the sudden contact makes him inhale sharply. _Glor_ y. Nux' raspy voice vibrates through the air:  
“Fucking _liar_.”  
The statement prickles his skin and his head falls down. The scenery is too much: the sight of Nux' hand stroking him, the involuntary stutter in his own breath, the heavy smell of arousal and the metallic sounds from another belt being unbuckled. Slit tears his eyes away and hits the wall behind him as he throws his head backwards. The sudden pain is a welcome addition drawing him further into the reality of the situation. This is not a dream from which he wakes up sweaty, this is not a feverish and shameful picture in his mind as he rubs himself in the darkness. This is certain: these are the willing bodies of him and Nux, these are the sharpened edges of reality instead of the hazy borders of fantasy and it is _too much_. His teeth sink into the thin skin on Nux' neck as he reaches down to mimic his driver's actions. As he starts stroking, Nux' hand violently grabs the back of his head and drags him into a wet kiss and it has never been like this. This is a fever, insanity, too chrome. The smacking sounds of them kissing combined with Nux' short, desperate groans send Slit's body into a heated madness and he quickens the pace as both of them rock their hips with the rhythm. He hears the hitch in his driver's breath and Nux moans into his mouth:  
“Glory me! Slit, feels so fucking good. I'm gonna come real soon.”  
After a couple of more strokes Nux stiffens in his hand and spills unto his stomach. The drawn-out syllable of his name that drips from his driver's lips as he comes sends all the heat in Slit's body to his crotch and his hips rock a final time. 

The afterglow is silence. Slit rests his head on Nux' shoulder keeping his eyes shut. Their breaths calm down and he releases a sigh as he feels Nux' hands caressing his back. His muscles, always tense, always ready, relax. The last of the sun rays cast an orange glow and in it dance specks of dust. For a moment he allows himself to be fulfilled by the strange solace surrounding them. The thoughts that flicker in his hazy mind are all-encompassing in their simplicity:  
_fucking stupid nux_  
_fucking stupid slit_  
_fucking stupid blue eyes_  
_fucking traitorous ticker_  
_fucking sweet, loathsome weakness_

But if there were no words. It is both more painful and easier if there are no words. If he could somehow pretend that this is just a basic desire for flesh, if he could persuade himself that Nux is nothing but a willing body for him. But the truth is that Slit knows exactly what the words are and no matter ( _or maybe because of_ ) how good his driver's body feels against his, the two syllables still ghost his lips as Nux drags his calloused fingertips down Slit's scarred spine: 

 

_soft  
death_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing smut is not one of my skills but i did my best 8D


End file.
